


cold feelings

by InWater



Category: Ghost (Swedish Band)
Genre: Agoraphobia, Anxiety, Hurt/Comfort, Intrusive Thoughts, It's MY fanfic and I get to make Papa II stan 1782, M/M, Mental Illness, Panic Attacks, Scopophobia, emotional issues, hold his fucking hand cirice just do it already
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 21:35:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20731124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InWater/pseuds/InWater
Summary: I got faith, but sometimes fear just weighs too much.





	cold feelings

**Author's Note:**

> I started this about a month ago after a suspiciously similar episode of bad thoughts, but until recently never had the guts to go back to it and clean it up. Here it is, I guess.

A stack of papers goes flying across the small office, pages fluttering gently to the floor after the initial violent impact knocks them loose from their clip. Muttering, Father Cirice stalks back and forth behind his desk before crouching suddenly, covering his ears with both hands. The priest is motionless for only a moment before he stands again to bang both palms on the surface of his desk, pausing until the blunt sting subsides. Almost as if it were an afterthought, he whips one of the many knickknacks that litter the surface of his workspace at the far wall. A marker follows shortly after, along with a container of mini binder clips, a highlighter, some sticky notes. 

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, stupid shit, God damn, stupid piece of shit, _ fuck _!” His voice breaks as he punctuates his frustration by smacking his palms against his forehead, below the base of his horns. 

The sounds welling up from the priest are too low and strangled to really be considered shouting; the noise peters out and he flumps into his chair, letting his head fall forward onto the desk with a thunk. As if it would block out the overwhelming intensity of everything, he folds his arms over his head, clasping his hands together at the nape of his neck. The stillness only lasts for half a minute, Cirice standing bolt upright and pacing around the desk a few times once the silence gets to be too much. Having been summoned by the racket (and an obviously annoyed librarian), Emeritus the Second lingers unnoticed at the open door with one hand braced on the frame, eyes somewhat wide behind his sunglasses. 

Not stepping in, not saying anything. Just... watching. 

Cirice scrubs his hands over his face at the hot tears welling up in his eyes, uncaring of the claws and apparently not noticing when one catches his cheek, leaving a tiny mark not unlike a cat scratch. Pressure wells up in his chest again, making breathing much too difficult for comfort - not getting nearly enough oxygen for how deeply he's gasping. Still muttering and pacing back and forth, paying no mind whatsoever to the door, he drags his claws down the sides of his face, reopening the ever present catscratch scabs and pockmarks on his cheeks and chin. At this, Papa finally decides to take action with a brisk few paces forward. He'd seen more than enough. It's unclear, however, if the priest even notices him. Maybe he just doesn't care, although that's far less likely. He puts too much stock in the opinions of others for this level of theatrics. 

“That's enough,” he says, softly, hushed, but still as stern as ever. He never was all that adept at emoting. In a lapse of judgement, he tries grabbing Cirice's wrists to at least get those pointed claws away from his _ eyes _ , _ why is it always straight to the eyes with him, _ grip unintentionally tightening when the priest screams and flings himself away from the direction of the invading hands. 

Something strikes Papa’s chest with a dull thud, beneath the left side of his clavicle. And again, on his bicep. And one more time, on his shoulder. It's such a shock to his senses that he hardly even registers the fact that Cirice is _ hitting _ him; open handed shoving motions to get some distance, but hitting him all the same. Cirice freezes and stares at his trembling hand for a split second before it gets a chance to make contact with Papa’s shoulder for a fourth time. The hand quickly jerks back as if it were burned, and Cirice resumes his pacing around the desk, hands combing through his sweat frazzled hair, dragging over his face and back up to grip his horns, quiet mumbling occasionally disrupted by a jolt or an undignified squeak. 

On the third lap around the desk, he sits down on the floor behind it. His stomach hurts. He starts to hyperventilate again. His shirt is suddenly too tight, the fabric too rough, the sensation nearly unbearable, almost as if his skin were badly sunburnt and the soft cotton were sandpaper. 

_ Let me out let me out let me out— _

Nails scrabble at his neckline, bright pink lines blooming on the skin of his throat in their wake as he roughly pulls the collar open with a few torn threads and popped buttons. He growls again. 

Gingerly stepping around the desk to where Cirice is sitting, Papa crouches down in front of him and raises a hand, fully intending to help or attempt to soothe in some way, but thinks better of it. He's still unsure if his presence is fully realized until the priest finally makes fleeting, panicked eye contact before looking away again, still attempting to claw his way out of his clothes, eyes widening and pupils pinning. Strangely enough, Papa finds himself reminded of the black birds who call the gardens home during the cold winter months. 

“Don't touch me.” 

Curling in on himself against the desk, unblinking, his voice is jarringly quiet. A stark, almost eerie contrast to his typical boisterousness and previous shouting and yowling. It feels like there's a pit opening up in Papa’s chest that hurts in a way he can't quite comprehend. Dull, distant, cold. 

“Of course. I'm sorry. I won't.” 

“_ Don't you fucking touch me _,” Cirice says, this time much more insistently. His eyes are wide, hair sticking to his skin with sweat. 

Papa moves back, raises both his hands in a show of surrender and when he lowers them onto his knees, he makes sure they remain in plain sight. With another loud popping of seams, Cirice wrestles the rest of his way out of his shirt, yanking it from where it's tucked into his pants and throwing it aside in a heap. Now free and leaning his full weight against the desk, his breathing slows and only spikes every so often from the tremors. For the most part he seems to have managed to calm himself, save for the pained grunt as he lurches forward to press his face to his knees. 

Silence permeates the room, growing heavier with each passing minute that the priest doesn't pick his head up. Instead, he somehow seems to shrink even further into himself, crossing his arms and sandwiching them between his torso and folded legs. Papa flexes his hands where they sit on his knees to keep himself from reaching over and manually uncurling Cirice's fingers to stop the nails from digging into his forearms, not deeply enough to pierce skin but just enough to make Papa a little uncomfortable. After what feels like an eternity, he lets his head fall back, horns clacking against the laminated chipboard and sighs, sweat no longer beading on his skin and the worst of the shaking having subsided. 

“Hi, Emil,” comes the wavering voice, cracked, raw, and dry. He coughs, and sniffles. “Sorry I, uh… sorry I hit you.” He makes eye contact for the apology, the way Papa told him he _ really _ ought to start doing, but it doesn’t last. 

Apology doesn't typically come easy, and though he _ is _ getting better at it, it definitely leaves something to be desired. Still, Papa is left a bit less disappointed with each attempt. 

“I know.”

“I was…” 

<strike> Scared. </strike>

The word dies in his throat. He knows it, Papa knows it. Best not to make excuses, anyway. 

“I know.”

Somehow, the acknowledgment makes it even worse, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes again. How humiliating. Cirice can already feel each gear and cog in his brain kicking back into overdrive and clutches his head again, the noise escaping him caught halfway between a growl and a pained groan. 

“Aren’t you supposed to feel _ better _ after you say sorry to your big, important... _ religion guy _? Or whatever? What gives? I feel like shit.” 

Papa quirks an eyebrow and does his damnedest not to let anything resembling amusement cross his face. 

“This isn’t exactly a confessional, now is it? Maybe going out will make you feel better, huh? When is the last time that you saw natural light?” 

As if on cue, the lighting fixture buzzes overhead, yellowish light flickering a few times. Papa makes a mental note to send someone down to take a look at the wiring later. It’s been a while since the archives saw this much use, so no one ever thought to keep on top of maintenance. The Father never complained, because _ hey, at least there’s no black mold! _ but Papa now sees why it was probably a bad idea to allow him of all people to make that call. Instead of giving him an answer, Cirice glances around nervously and hauls himself up, collecting his scattered belongings. 

Fine, then. 

In the meantime, Papa busies himself with straightening up the mess that litters the priest’s work space; pens and markers in the top drawer, research notes in one pile, drawings and diagrams in another, torn up and crumpled scrap papers off to the side to be reconsidered later. It’s a strange feeling to not be chastised for touching his things, as laughable and frustrating as it is to be told off by a low-level priest. He’s well aware that Cirice prefers his own brand of organized chaos over Papa’s need for methodical and defined categories, but he really does not want to risk triggering something by making an attempt at physically straightening up the priest himself. 

Finished with totally reorganizing the desk, Papa snatches up the now ruined shirt and tosses it over to the priest, who seems to have been standing around the whole time and watching him sort out the desk until it looked like something out of an Office Depot ad. 

“Put some clothes on, would you?”

Cirice fumbles to catch the shirt, which hits his chest and falls back at his feet, but laughs through the minor embarrassment; it’s all uphill after you have a meltdown in front of the guy you’re working for, and also… seeing? Maybe? They’ll need to have a(nother) conversation about that later. Most likely after playing 20 Questions over whatever the hell this most recent meltdown was all about. 

“Wow, that’s new. You’ve never said _ that one _ to me before,” he mumbles sarcastically, slightly distracted by doing up his shirt and feeling a little disappointed in himself when he gets to the first of several missing buttons. 

“Enough of that. Come, we are going on a walk.” 

He hardly waits for a response before ushering Cirice out with a heavy hand on his shoulder blade. The contact is a little much, but definitely needed (appreciated, even) after such a hard emotional nosedive. 

“You need some air. Sunlight. Not that dusty, air conditioner, fluorescent shit,” Papa grouses, waving his free hand dismissively. Cirice snorts, mumbling that he _owns_ _an air purifier, that’s good enough_, cutting off whatever tangent that Papa was about to launch into about “psychology” and “basic human necessities”, refusing to budge any further once they get to the staircase. 

“Let me go and change first.”

“No. I know you. Once you get into your room, I will never see you again.”

“Well, can I borrow your coat, then? I’m kinda… Pops, I’m looking a little tore up here.” 

He seems to deliberate on it for much longer than necessary. 

“No,” he states simply, giving the priest another firm nudge toward the stairs. In response, Cirice makes a show of holding his shirt closed where the buttons have ripped off, gripping Papa’s upper arm tightly with his other hand. 

“But _ Papa _ , what will the neighbors think? You _ animal _,” he gasps, hardly able to get the sentence out when he catches Papa rolling his eyes behind his glasses, the corner of his lips twitching.

“That’s never stopped you once before. _ Go _ ,” he says again, more firmly this time, and Cirice sees no point in arguing further; he’d already gotten a talking to about defiance and sarcasm last week and he wasn’t looking forward to another any time soon. He's lucky Papa even allowed the name slip-up to go uncorrected (_no informalities during working hours_), but given the circumstances, he can kind of see why. 

They don’t make it out on the first attempt. There are too many ghouls and members of the parish out enjoying themselves in the sunshine, it’s too bright, it’s too loud, oh fuck, what if one of them _ looks at him _— 

Papa doesn’t ask for an explanation, but makes note of the way the priest’s grip on his arm suddenly became painfully tight as he inched forward until the toes of his shoes lined up with the threshold before freezing in place. He allows them to stand around in the doorway for a few minutes, listening to the priest nervously prattle on about the newest batch of research papers that was sent over to be translated. Once the death grip on his upper arm loosens, Papa makes his way down the first few steps leading to the cobblestone walkway. Cirice doesn’t fight him on it when he’s lead in the general direction of the garden. 

A low, croaking groan escapes him again and he slows down in an attempt to hide behind Papa’s shoulder despite the fact that they’re around the same height, not even counting the horns. 

“This sucks. This is the worst thing you've ever done to me. I’m gonna go back inside, okay?” He rushes through the question before Papa even gets an opportunity to list all of the things that_ really were_ worse than a casual walk outside.

As Papa expected, Cirice doesn’t let go of his arm or make any attempt to leave. Cirice knows well enough that the walk back would be ten times worse alone, and he doesn’t even want to think about how bailing would change Papa’s opinion of him. His stomach hurts. That nagging voice in the back of his head burbles up again with its looping mantra of insults and bile at the mounting anxiety. A cold chill makes itself at home at the base of Cirice’s neck, traveling up into his skull. His hand inches down toward Papa’s wrist; a little extra security never hurt anyone.

(**“You stupid asshole. He comes down to help you out and your first instinct is to run? What a waste of his time. What are you even so worked up about? This is nothing. This is the bare minimum and you can’t even get that right. You’re a real piece of shit, you know that? Why can’t you just—“**) 

Distantly, he realizes that Papa has been speaking to him for the entire walk over to the stone bench under a particularly large jacaranda tree, but was being tuned out in favor of his own spiraling thoughts. 

(**“You inconsiderate asshole. All you ever think about is yourself.”** “ _ God, shut up! _”) 

Still, the familiar sound of his voice was comforting, even if Cirice couldn’t entirely focus on what was being said to him.

“...recorded in honor of the witches throughout history, burned at the stake by zealots,” Papa finishes. He knew his distraction wasn’t doing the best job given the frantic flickering of the priest’s gaze, but it was better than nothing. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Cirice asks, climbing over the stone bench and perching on the backrest, leaving his feet to dangle over the arm. At this point, Papa isn’t sure why the way that the priest does what he does still gives him pause. He sighs and sits close. 

“The album. The one that I lent you, two weeks ago. ...Have you really been locking yourself away in that basement all this time?” 

“No!” His offended tone earns him a look. “No, I just. I’ve been... preoccupied.”

Papa hums. 

“You’ve been hiding away and distracting yourself with work,” He says, matter-of-factly. “I understand.” 

Neither of them speak for a while, Papa enjoying the silence and Cirice not knowing how the conversation is meant to continue from there. No matter how many years it’s been, not being yelled at or condescended to for fucking up leaves him buzzing with nervous energy. 

“We should… go back inside and listen to it, then. The album. I have the CD in my desk. Did you like it? Do you want to listen to it again? We could do that, if you want, if—“ 

Now that the most pressing crisis at hand was averted, Papa lets himself chuckle at the priest's rambling. 

“No,” he says curtly and stands up. “We are continuing our walk. Ten minutes outdoors isn’t enough.” He checks the time on his phone and doesn’t wait for Cirice to climb off the bench before continuing down the walkway. 

“Wh— Hey, no, the building’s right over there, we can totally go back!” He tries, despite jogging to catch up anyway. Papa didn’t get very far, purposely taking his time admiring the deep bluish-purple blooms of the surrounding trees. The hand around his upper arm is back once he catches up, but as they start to walk it slips back down to his wrist. 

“Oh! By the way, that painting, the one that Omega delivered a while back…” Cirice mumbles, crowding in close and grabbing Papa’s upper arm again in his free hand, hoping that the passing group of ghouls and Siblings wouldn’t hear. It’s not that his research was a secret, or anything; the Papas actually loved and pushed for the rest of the congregation to do their own research regarding the arts and their church’s history. It’s just that, around here, people actually _ listen _ and pay attention when others speak. Cirice isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to that. 

“Yes? Speak up, _ cabrainho _,” Papa prompts, making no effort to lower his voice to match the priest’s conspiratorial tone. Cirice stammers and has to clear his throat when Papa adjusts his arm so that he can grab his hand properly.

“That isn’t fair, you can’t just _ say things _and then—“ Cirice sputters, but Papa cuts him off again with a pat to the back of his hand. 

“Tell me about the painting.” 

Cirice gathers his thoughts for a second, tearing his suspicious gaze away from a couple of Sisters sitting in the nearby shade. 

“The painting, uh… so, I thought that gold disc behind the head was a halo, you know, like an angel? But it looks more like… Do you remember the Signum Dei Vivi that I showed you? From that book?”

He knows he does, but waits for Papa to confirm anyway.

“It looks sort of like that, but the pentacle is inverted, and I can’t read all the text on the septagram but it looks kind of…”

He trails off into a tangent — with only a few minor distractions — pausing every so often to wait for Papa’s input. They’ve _ almost _ worked out the meaning behind the text — a Latin prayer to the Old One, written phonetically in Ghoulish characters, go fucking figure — but based on the photos from the priest’s phone, the paint is much too worn with age to be read in full. A shame, really. From what Latin he was able to translate off the top of his head from Cirice's interpretation of the characters, it sounded beautiful. 

“Well, I will certainly see what can be done about the painting. It’s not that I don’t trust in your artistic skills, but, ehh…” 

Cirice laughs, bumping his shoulder as they walk. 

“Oh no, I’m not fucking touching that thing! I don’t even trust myself to move it off the worktable Omega left it on! I’d probably— wait, what time is it?” He’d hardly even noticed that the courtyard had been getting progressively emptier as they walked, downcast eyes not catching the flickering lamp posts or their return to the front of the library. Papa checks his phone again. 

“It’s 6:48. We’ve been out for an hour and a half. Good!” 

He locks and pockets the phone, trying to lead the priest back up the steps, only to stop short when he refuses to budge. The only reaction Cirice gets is a quirk of the eyebrow. 

“I don’t think you ever properly answered me on whether you wanna listen to that album again,” Cirice says, somewhat back to his typical lighthearted demeanor but still seeming… tired. Worn out, even. It’s a bit disheartening, if he’s being honest with himself. 

“Of course. You said it was in your desk, we are going to your desk.” 

“_Oh._ Okay. Cool. Cool, cool, cool.” 

The priest lets himself be lead inside and down the hall, past the countless rows of books and all the way to the stairs, already listing off reasons why they definitely can’t listen in the archives (bad acoustics, shitty laptop speakers, don’t wanna disturb the staff and patrons…) and about how they absolutely need to go back to Papa’s living space, where Cirice knows _for a fact_ that Papa has a “really fuckin’ sick speaker system” set up. 

“You’re pushing your luck, cabrainho,” he hums, but doesn’t say anything more about the self-invitation.

**Author's Note:**

> Album: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eR02DI7LcL4


End file.
